


Fine Line

by slightlyrebelliouswriter



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Album: Fine Line (Harry Styles), Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fine Line, Hate Sex, POV Cardan Greenbriar, POV Jude Duarte, Roommates, Song: Adore You (Harry Styles), actually more like enemies to lovers to friends to soulmates but semantics, adore you, and then they were roommates!, jurdan - Freeform, quarantine au, two idiots one braincell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24434044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyrebelliouswriter/pseuds/slightlyrebelliouswriter
Summary: Two vindictive assholes. One shitty apartment. And a vow to get under each other’s skin. Stuck in hate together 24/7, this can only end in a crime of passion.
Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar
Comments: 93
Kudos: 218
Collections: Jurdan Week, favorite on PJO, favorite on TFOTA





	1. Adore You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Illyrianwitchling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illyrianwitchling/gifts).



> Written for Jurdan Week 2020, hosted by @jurdannet on Tumblr | Day 4- Song Crossover (Adore You by Harry Styles requested by Sweetlyvillainous)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strawberry state of mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: M  
> CW: mature themes, explicit descriptions, vulgar language.

**[Cardan POV]**

The minute I walk into the kitchen, I know I’m fucked.

She’s sitting there on one of _my_ bar stools, at _my_ island counter, eating _my_ strawberries straight out of the plastic container. I say “my” because I’m still in denial that I have to share this shit-hole with anyone. Especially her.

When I put the ad up online, I was skint and desperate. I would’ve taken anyone short of a serial killer, really, but I was hoping for normal. Or at the very least, boring. It’s just my luck that the only person who responded to the ad was someone so insufferable.

We were civil with each other for all of a day. Three weeks had me almost driven to moving out. _Me._ Moving out of my own damn apartment because even that is easier than living with Jude Duarte. 

That’s when corona hit, so I guess I’m stuck.

It’s been a fortnight of isolation. Putting up with her unmitigated bullshit. Her ceaseless presence and mulish disposition. Our constant butting heads. 

On a good day, I give myself over to the ashen taste of resignation. On the bad ones, I want to throw myself down the stairs just so I can spend the night in hospital. 

Anyways, I’m fucked because my wretched flatmate is sitting there in her baggy black sweatpants and oversized hoodie. Her knees are tucked up to her chest, giving me a plain view of those stupid rainbow socks she’s always wearing. Her hair is a mess on top of her head. Everything about her sets off a tick in my jaw.

Except the way she eats strawberries.

Her full pink lips wrap around one now and— _fucking hell_. I swear my cock twitches. When she sinks her teeth in, those lips come away red-stained and glistening. A line of juice dribbles down her chin as she chews. Then, she pops the stem into her mouth and eats that, too.

I find myself imagining her on her knees, strawberry lips wrapped around something else of mine. The way the back of her throat would feel as I ram into her mouth—

I blink. My lip curls. I need coffee, and maybe a cold shower.

The former is closest, so I stop standing in the doorway like the twat that I am and walk into the kitchen. Thankfully, she’s got earphones in and is so immersed in whatever the fuck she does on her laptop all day that she hasn’t noticed my blatant ogling.

If she notices me at all, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

Good. It’s better this way. The less we talk the less we end up screaming at each other. It’s only happened twice. The neighbours came round both times.

I pull a mug and the instant coffee down from a shelf.

It irks me. Just last night, I was standing in this very spot, doing everything in my power not to lose my shit after finding a pile of her dirty dishes in the sink. For the third time this week. She always says “they’re soaking”, and I always end up doing them later anyway, because I can’t stand the mess.

She does things like that a lot. Dishes and crumbs and wrappers. Stealing my food. A week ago I found a pizza crust jammed in between the cushions of the sofa. She denies all accountability, of course.

Not to mention, she sets her alarms for the ass crack of dawn. She’s such a heavy sleeper that I’m invariably wide awake well before she is, listening to the incessant shrill of her phone through the walls as she hits snooze, over and over.

I’m certainly not without my faults, of course. I know she hates me just as much as I hate her. She’s told me as much. Which is why I’m miffed that suddenly, without any warning, I want to fuck her into the kitchen counter.

There’s a spoon in the drying rack and I use it to stir my coffee. 

_Nicasia hated me,_ I think to myself. She loved me once, but she hated me for a while before she did anything about it. Then, I stop. Because I don’t want to uncork _that_ bottle today. Point is, maybe it’s not completely out of left field. To want someone right when they’re giving you the very least of their attention.

I tap the spoon against the lip of my mug. Usually, I’d retreat back to my bedroom at this point. Instead, I throw the spoon in the sink and turn around to lean against the counter.

She’s still sitting at the island, honed in on her computer. I can hear the thin, metallic wail of a guitar coming from her earphones. She bobs her head slightly to the beat.

It’s not as if she isn’t attractive. In her own, unique way.

She’s strong. If I didn’t hear her pummeling that blasted punching bag she’s got hanging in her room every night, I’d have known she boxed just by the way she looks. She’s got a fighter’s build about her. It lives in her shoulders, in the barrel of her chest. As if every line of her was made bold and unyielding. With intention. 

Again, I have to stop my own wandering thoughts. I’m starting to wonder if maybe my dead-end job that has me editing bad romance novels for a living is starting to go to my head. 

It pays the bills until it doesn’t. And then it rots my brain. Maybe I should quit.

Still, I tell myself it’s the quarantine talking. That if I wasn’t trapped in here with her, I wouldn’t find anything about her attractive. That I’d probably be willing to whore myself out for one cigarette right about now. And I don’t even smoke.

But then she looks up at me, mid-bite. Those honey-brown eyes are wild. They threaten to cut straight through me. She squints, accusatory. Chews her bite, slow. Swallows.

My mouth goes dry as the fucking Sahara.

“What are you staring at?” she demands, glare blazing.

Apparently, I’m in the mood to walk that fire, because I take a sip of my coffee and say, smug as I can, “You.”

Sometimes, it’s better to be completely honest with Jude. The truth always seems to appal her far more than any lie ever could. As if she expects everyone to be deceiving. Or maybe it’s just that my truths are so outrageous to her that she doesn’t believe them.

I wouldn’t blame her there. I can hardly admit to this truth, myself. Whether she believes me or not, though, it gets under her skin.

“Right,” she scoffs. “Is it because I’m pretty? Is it because you like me so much?” She bats her lashes at me, mocking. I am stunned by the fact that, for a moment, I wish it was real. That I’d gladly lose myself in that look if it came from her eyes in earnest.

Then I shake my head. I sound like the biggest shit-for-brains. It’ll take more than a few eyelash flutters to make me surrender.

“Oh, no,” I say, trying to match her taunting tone, “I don’t like you. I _adore_ you.”

That makes Jude roll her eyes. “Please,” she says. “You’re probably plotting ways to stick me in my sleep or something. Fucking psychopath.”

It’s that last part that makes me take a step toward the island, lean forward to rest my elbows on the counter so I’m nearly in her space. She doesn’t draw back. Just gives me a scathing look from over the top of her screen.

“If I’m ever depraved enough to stick you,” I tell her, smirking, “I guarantee you won’t be sleeping, love.” Which may come off as anything from perverted to downright murderous, but I don’t care. The face she makes is worth it.

It’s all jaw dropped, vicious gaze, blush creeping into her cheeks like red smoke. I’ve never challenged her before. It makes her look at me like she despises me. Like the only thing she’ll ever do is despise me. I don’t know why that eggs me on, but it does.

“Would you look at that,” I hum, “You’ve got the face about right, too.”

Her nostrils flare. Jaw sets. There’s a lovely shade of puce coming up on her already heated cheeks. She’s absolutely livid, and I can taste it in the air between us. It’s like static on my tongue.

That’s when something cold and slimy hits me dead between the eyes. Jude’s half-eaten strawberry plops to the counter. I’m so surprised I almost laugh.

“You’re disgusting,” she says with as much derision as I feel coursing through me.

Part of me wants to give in to that anger. Sling a string of curses at her. Throw the strawberry right back in her face. Those things won’t annoy her half as much as what I actually do.

Keeping an unbothered expression, I pluck the strawberry off the countertop and pop it right into my mouth. Stem and all. I lick my fingers for good measure. All while keeping direct eye contact with the little menace sitting across from me. Her gaze flits to my lips. So I swipe my tongue over them. She blinks.

“Delicious,” I say.

She looks just the right amount of scandalised for me to straighten, take my coffee back up in one hand, and saunter out of the kitchen. I don’t say anything about the strawberries. Or how stealing isn’t a very good exercise in courtesy.

We’ve never been courteous with one another, anyway.

When I’m back in my room I lean against the closed door and scrub a hand over my face. My heartbeat is raging since I did not.

Sometimes, I think the irritating things she does are all on purpose. Just to get under my skin. I rarely give her the satisfaction of knowing it works, but I don’t like letting her trample all over me, either. It gives me an oily feeling. Like I’m back to being under someone else’s thumb, and I hate it.

But _that_ —whatever that was—felt more like fighting back than I ever thought I’d have the balls to do. I feel more alive now than I’ve felt in months.

Maybe that makes me a bastard. _C’est la fucking vie._

I start shucking off my clothes, throwing them into the hamper in the corner, one by one. My bedroom is mercifully en suite. If I wanted to, I could live in here for days at a time without leaving.

I don’t know why I ever bother.

I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. As I stand there under the cold stream, I think about how dangerous it is, this game I’ve entered. Flirting with Jude to get a rise out of her is one thing. That’s clear cut. A direct retaliation.

It’s another thing entirely if part of why I’m doing it is to take the edge off of my own perversions. I mean, what kind of sick fuck has sex fantasies about someone they hate? Someone they’re stuck in isolation with, twenty-four-seven, for the foreseeable future? Someone who hates their guts, too, and could probably easily take them out if it came to physical blows?

I guess that sick fuck would be me.

It’s a fine line to walk but there’s no turning back. I’ve already begun.

**☽☽☽☽☽**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So I guess I’m hopping on the quarantine fic bandwagon 😅 this is definitely not what I expected to come out of this song crossover prompt, but I kind of like it? It’s (very loosely) based off of Adore You by Harry Styles- the threads are there if you look for them 😉
> 
> I am a trollop for comments so if you've got any kind ones, drop me a line down below! I read and adore every single one. I am slightlyrebelliouswriter23 on Tumblr. All my works are posted there, as well.
> 
> Back to the forest now!  
> -Em 🖤💫


	2. Adore You, Verse 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me to stop,” he whispers. “Say please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, massive thank you to @clockworkgraystairs for betaing this for me, and to her and @sweetlyvillainous for holding my hand and being my rocks throughout the process of writing this chapter. I absolutely could not have done it without y’all!   
> Chapter Rating: E  
> CW: mature themes, explicit descriptions, vulgar language, explicit content.

**[Jude POV]**

When Cardan leaves the kitchen, my thighs are pressed so tightly together, I could throttle a man. Maybe I’d like to throttle _him_.

Yeah, that’ll be it.

It takes me a full minute to collect myself. I am dredged in such loathing. My face is steeped in it.

I hear him start the shower and I want to scream. Everything he does makes me want to scream, but especially this. I don’t need to imagine him in more states of undress than I already have at this young hour of the day.

It doesn’t help that he looks deviously fuckable in the morning. Grey joggers, fitted black tee. Hair so unkempt I am almost given to the compulsion of raking my fingers through it.

Maybe he always looks this way. I’m not sure.

I never paid his appearance much attention until he had his wretched beautiful mouth wrapped around a strawberry like the very last thing it was was a strawberry. And then I wanted that mouth everywhere; on me, a fever hot on my skin, on other things pink and wet.

 _Fuck_.

I should know better than to continue down that train of thought.

The prick thinks he can just waltz in here and stare at me like… _that._ And say those… _things_. All these weeks he’s been moping around this miserable flat like a zombie, making me suffer in the woe he absolutely reeks of. And he chooses _now_ to fight back?

It wasn’t like his usual retaliations, either: The silent treatment, passive aggressive notes he leaves taped to the fridge. He prefers his missives and I prefer to annoy the living shit out of him.

If I decide I want to be particularly stubborn and ignore his feeble attempts at making peace, only then does he resort to something even half interesting—yelling.

I don’t usually let it escalate to that point, but sometimes the temptation is too good. Sometimes I do it for spite.

We’ve only had three shouting matches in my brief time here. It’s a better track record than when I was living at Madoc’s with my sisters, but that’s not saying much. One of those three ill-fated times, Cardan was belligerently drunk. I’m not entirely sure he remembers it.

All three rows were catastrophic, though. They ended in broken things and the neighbours popping round to make sure everything was okay. That was the most humiliating part, I think.

This time, however, Cardan was different. Usually, I am able to see the anger simmering just underneath the surface. Whatever shit he just pulled, it was something far more resolved—collected. Two words I am sure are antonyms for my lousy flatmate.

I can’t quite place my unease, but I learned from a very young age the dangers of men who are able to hold their anger in silence. And it is undeniable that he was angry.

The sound of running water stops, and I realise just how long I’ve been sitting here staring out the kitchen window like a dazed idiot.

Today’s a wash as it is, so I close my laptop and unplug my earphones. There’s no way I’m going to be able to cyber-stalk some scumbag when there is already one muddling my thoughts.

I gather my things and hop down from the bar stool. I grab the carton of strawberries, too.

Cardan can eat my ass for breakfast, for all I care.

My room is at the front of the apartment. It’s small but not too small, and has a window overlooking the street that lets the light in in the mornings. To anyone else, it would be cozy. To me, it is my worst nightmare.

When I close the door, I’m overwhelmed by my own incertitude. Being always trapped in a shoebox has its pitfalls. The foremost being that if I’m not busy with work, I haven’t a clue what to do with myself.

Mostly, I just take odd pictures of things I see or pummel the training bag in the corner of my room until my knuckles are too-swollen under their bandages. The former can get old very fast when you only have the same five-hundred square feet to work with day in and day out. The latter, I would do forever if only I had infinite stamina and indestructible knuckles.

Right now, I’m not sure I have the energy for either pastime.

My bed is shoved into a far corner of the room, away from the windows, right up against the closet door. It makes storage inconvenient, but it was either that or push the bed up against the heater in the other corner, and I figured I didn’t need the fire hazard.

I dump everything in a pile on the duvet and flop down. Checking my phone, I notice there’s a missed call from my twin sister, Taryn, and a couple unread messages on our sibling group chat:

**Vivi Hates Madoc:** _Yo, truant child. What’s the Netflix password? Oak logged us out and we can’t get back in._

 **Oakay:** _It was like that when I opened it, I swear!_

 **Vivi Hates Madoc:** _You know what they say… Whoever smelt it, dealt it._

 **Oakay:** _That only applies to farting._

 **Vivi Hates Madoc:** _Whatever. I’m still blaming you._

 **TareBear:** _Jude. Save me._

**TareBear:** _Please._

**Vivi Hates Madoc:** _Juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude._

_> >_ **_TareBear_ ** _changed_ **_Hey Jude’s_ ** _name to_ **_Jude the Betrayer_ ** _._

_> >_ **_Vivi Hates Madoc_ ** _changed_ **_Jude the Betrayer’s_ ** _name to_ **_Truant Jude_ ** _._

I sigh and type out my response.

**Truant Jude:** _Sorry, I’m here._

**Truant Jude:** _Flatmate was being a prick._

 **Vivi Hates Madoc:** _Nothing new there._

**Vivi Hates Madoc:** _Have you tried making out with his face yet?_

**Truant Jude:** _Gross, Vivi._

**Vivi Hates Madoc:** _What? I’m just saying! Maybe he needs to relieve the tension._

I’m thankful they can’t see my betraying face as I reply.

**Truant Jude:** _I would rather stick my hand down the garbage disposal._

 **TareBear:** _Jude, please. Help._

 **TareBear:** _They’re so loud. I’m this close to killing someone._

 **Truant Jude:** _And you think Netflix will pacify them?_

**Vivi Hates Madoc:** _MAKE OUT WITH HIS FACE._

**Truant Jude:** _I’d stick to the killing plan if I were you, Taryn._

**Oakay:** _Um, hellooo. Not a baby. Don’t need a pacifier._

 **TareBear:** _You’re closer to being a baby than any of us, Oaky._

**Vivi Hates Madoc:** _Why do I need a pacifier then?_

**TareBear:** _Because you’re his accessory._

**Vivi Hates Madoc:** _Way to objectify me. Rude._

**TareBear:** _Henchman?_

**Vivi Hates Madoc:** _Better._

_> >_ **_TareBear_ ** _changed_ **_Vivi Hates Madoc’s_ ** _name to_ **_Vivi the Henchman._ **

**Truant Jude:** _Have you tried the usual?_

 **Vivi the Henchman:** _Every variation of madocsucks1112 we could think of. No dice._

 **Truant Jude:** _Did you try spelling “sucks” with an x?_

**Vivi the Henchman:** _Hold on._

A few seconds go by and my phone buzzes again.

**Vivi the Henchman:** _Thanks, Jude!_

 **TareBear:** _You’re a lifesaver, J. Seriously. I owe you._

I roll my eyes at that last one, because Taryn is the least dependable person on the planet. I know better than to trust an oath from her.

My phone goes silent. It’s times like these when I actually miss living in that big stupid mansion with the rest of my siblings. I couldn’t stay there, though. Not after everything I found out.

The problem is, having nothing to do unsettles me. If I sit still, I think; if I think too much, I worry; if I worry too much, I panic. Unfortunately for me, quarantine has only amplified that problem.

I’m trapped in this shoebox with a roommate I hate and only two hobbies to speak of. Work has become entirely unreliable. I guess that’s what I get for going into fucking Private Investigating.

Six months ago I was hired under a temporary contract by a small firm called The Shadow Co. As soon as I was able to scrape together enough cash, I moved out—and in, to this rubbish bin.

Then, corona hit and not at all shockingly the number of missing persons and cheating husbands nosedived. Even when there _are_ clients, there’s only so much I can investigate from behind my screen.

Lately, I feel like I’m wound so tight, like a coiled up spring. Like my skin is pulled taut over my bones.

I fling my phone down on the bed.

For all his terribleness, maybe Cardan had one bright idea in taking a shower. My bathroom is across the hall, so I grab a clean towel from the stack on my dresser.

The bathroom itself is grim at best. No matter how long or how hard I scrub, there’s always some kind of filth in the grout. Not to mention, it’s about the size of a cruise ship bathroom, which isn’t great.

I hang the towel on one of the hooks beside the door. There’s no tub, only a standing shower with a sliding glass door. I slide it open and turn on the faucet.No water comes out.

Frowning, I turn it off. Then back on again. Jiggle the handle. Bang on it a little. Nothing.

I groan. _Fucking fantastic._

Since Cardan is the primary tenant, I didn’t bother saving the land lady’s information. I figured, if anything needed fixing, Cardan could handle it. Now, I’m regretting that decision immensely, because it means I’m actually going to have to talk to him.

I yank my towel off the hook, grab my shampoo and conditioner, and storm down the hall in a flurry of bitter resignation.

Soft music floats from underneath his bedroom door. I take a steadying breath and a moment of deep self-loathing before knocking twice. The music pauses but I don’t hear him move to answer. I knock again, louder this time. The door flies open.

Cardan stands there, hair still damp and hanging down over his brow, black fitted tee clinging to his lithe frame. He’s wearing a different pair of grey joggers that are equally as tantalising as the others and I want to scream. Who owns multiple pairs of grey joggers?

He looks entirely shocked to see me. As if I could be anyone else. As if he would believe his eyes more if I were. He sweeps the errant hairs back with one hand. I’m overcome by the smell of his shampoo—lemon and rosemary.

“Hi,” Cardan says. An odd greeting, for us at least.

“Hi?” I repeat back, narrowing my eyes. “Was I… interrupting something?” I glance beyond him into the room and notice his laptop open on the bed. “Nevermind.” Heat floods my cheeks. “I don’t want to know.”

He leans against the door, that suave facade from before settling in like a fog over his face. “Are you sure about that?” he says, smirking down at me.

“Yes,” I snap. There’s a blessed amount of venom in my voice, though my heart races.

Cardan gives me a tight-lipped smile. “How can I help, then.”

My stomach does a weird little flip. “My shower isn’t working,” I tell him, squaring my shoulders. He isn’t going to like any part of this.

Cardan frowns. “As in, no hot water?”

I roll my eyes. I shouldn’t have to tell him I wouldn’t endure the mortification of asking his help for such a small inconvenience as cold water. “As in _no_ water.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” I say. “This place is kind of a dump.”

He snorts. “You can say that again.”

A beat of silence passes between us. I’m so stunned by his abrupt camaraderie that I’m left scrambling for a response. “I uh… I would’ve called the land lady myself but I forgot to save her number.”

“Right.” He nods. “She’ll probably take a couple of days to respond, but I can try her.” Then his eyes shift to the things in my hands and I’m filled with a sharp drop of dread. He raises one brow. “Is that all?”

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

Of _course_ he’s not going to offer. Of _course_ he wants me to humiliate myself by asking. He’ll probably tell me no, and to suck it up until the plumber gets here. Which might be fine with me, if I hadn’t skipped yesterday’s shower. Or the day before’s.

Regrettably, I need one. So I turn my gaze to the ceiling. “I was wondering if I could use your bathroom.” The words fall too-fast off my tongue.

When I look back at his face, he’s smirking again, which I can only take as a bad sign. “Your toilet’s working just fine, isn’t it?”

I glare at him. He knows damn well what I’m asking. “I need a _shower_.”

“Yes.” He gives me a once over. “I’d agree with that.”

I clench my jaw hard, and find relief in thinking about shattering his.

I should’ve known he was going to be a dick about this. I should’ve saved my pride and holed up in my room until the plumber came round, body odor be damned.

For that matter, I should’ve figured out how to fix the thing myself. There’s bound to be tutorials on YouTube somewhere.

Before I can come up with a retort, or turn to walk away, Cardan swings the door open wider. “Alright,” he says. “Just through there.” He juts his chin toward another door with a full length mirror hanging over the back.

I don’t think I can open my mouth without saying something vicious, so I just give him a slight nod and step past him.

Over the threshold, I’m hit with the sharp realisation that I’ve never seen the inside of his room, save for a few brief glances from the hall. It’s brighter than I expect. The windows don’t have any curtains, letting in all the midday’s light. There are plants spilling over the lips of terra-cotta pots, and stacks of books and papers everywhere.

On his nightstand, he’s got one of those portable record players that looks like a briefcase when you close it up. It’s yellow, of all colours, and has a vinyl paused mid-song on the platter.

Whatever I imagined Cardan’s room might look like, this is leagues away from that.

I make my way toward the bathroom, trying not to stare too much. I flip the light-switch on the wall and the master bath illuminates. Though it’s nothing fancy, it still makes mine look like a cubby hole in comparison. There’s even a tub separate from the shower.

I turn to close the bathroom door and I can’t quite get a read on the expression on his face. Probably arrogance. Or disgust.

“I’ll be quick,” I promise.

“Please,” Cardan drawls. “Don’t be.”

I don’t think too long on what he’s implying before slamming the door and locking it. My pulse pounds heavy in my ears.

I’d like to drown myself in his bath for how ashamed he makes me feel. Instead, I remove my clothes and step into the shower.

I want to be in and out of here as quickly as possible, and as much as I would love to annoy him by using his tub without permission, baths are certainly not conducive to time efficiency.

I close my eyes and let the warm water sweep away all thoughts of him.

**☽☽☽☽☽**

When it’s all said and done, I’m only in there for about ten minutes. I have to use his body wash because I forgot to bring my own, but I doubt he’ll notice. It’s not like we ever get close enough for him to smell it on me.

It’s redolent of summer and lathers like silk on my skin.

I also forgot to bring a change of clothes, which was a stupid mistake on my part, but I can’t do anything about it now. I wrap my towel tightly around me and hope he’s not around to witness.

A cloud of steam exits the bathroom when I open the door, and it’s just my luck that my previous hopes are immediately dashed.

Cardan is there, sitting on his bed, a stack of papers spread out on the sheets before him. He’s reading one of the pages and making little notes in the margins with red pen. A pair of black framed glasses I’ve never seen him wear perches on his nose.

A jolt of something stuns me into hesitation. He looks up.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, an odd look crossing his face. I feel that strange, liminal static like I did this morning in the kitchen. Like how it feels right before lightning strikes, when every nerve stands on end. Only, instead of being afraid, I am anticipating the blow.

“I’d say take a picture,” I try sneering, “But I wouldn’t do you the honour.” It doesn’t come out half as convincing as I’d like.

I want him to push back. I want him to tell me how he wouldn’t want a picture of me anyway, to confirm what I already know. That this weird feeling is just that: Weird. Fleeting. Insignificant.

Cardan’s face turns carefully blank, and I prepare for the strike. But it doesn’t come. He shoots an incredulous look over the top of those stupid glasses and says, “Take your shit with you,” before going back to whatever he’s reading.

My jaw goes slack. He’s right. My clothes are still in a pile on the floor of his bathroom, my shampoo and conditioner still on the shelf in the shower, but that’s beside the point.

Cardan hasn’t confirmed that this feeling between us is insignificant. If anything, he’s confirmed that it’s not. But rather, he’s spoken as if _I_ am the insignificant thing. As if he would never stoop so low so as to act on such a feeling so long as it was for me.

My fingernails dig into the meat of my palms. I want to piss him off. I want to scream and be a raging menace.

He must expect that of me by now, though. And I mislike the idea of him expecting anything of me. If he won’t be tempted to stoop low, then I suppose there is nothing I can do that will bother him. I suppose I will stoop lower.

I cross the room, carrying nothing but my pride and stubbornness. “No,” I say to him when I reach the door, “I don’t think I will.”

As I step out into the hall, I let my towel drop. It’s a dollop of periwinkle terrycloth on the threshold. I step over it and imagine the look on his horrible face as I saunter, naked and unhurried, across the apartment to my room without a second glance back.

**☽☽☽☽☽**

When I shut myself in my room, I’m nearly shaking. I don’t know if it’s anger or nerves or the sick depravity of what I’ve just done. Maybe it’s a strange, adrenaline-hyped amalgamation of the three.

But I know I haven’t felt this way since the day I moved out of Madoc’s. I feel nauseous. I feel unstoppable. I feel like I’ve just walked down a hall of knives and come out the other side unscathed.

Pulling on some loose shorts and an old T-shirt, I collapse, beleaguered and frayed onto the bed. I need a nap. Or twelve.

A buzzing noise sounds from the nightstand.

**Vivi the Henchman:** _Jude, you wanna FaceTime tonight?_

**Vivi the Henchman:** _Juuudeee._

**Vivi the Henchman:** _Hey. Jude._

**Oakay:** _Don’t make it bad._

 **Vivi the Henchman:** _Take a sad song._

**TareBear:** _Jude, you were right._

**Oakay:** _And make it betttteeeerrr._

 **Vivi the Henchman:** _Remember! To let her into your heart._

**TareBear:** _They never stop._

**Oakay:** _Then you can staAARRRT._

 **Vivi the Henchman:** _To make it beeeeetter._

I shove my face into the pillow. The wise thing to do would be to ignore them. But I know they’ll keep sending messages until I respond, so I pick up my phone.

**Truant Jude:** _I swear I’m going to blacklist the Beatles from the “bands you can play in my presence” list if you don’t shut up._

**TareBear:** _Jude! Thank god._

**Vivi the Henchman:** _What?? I thought you liked the Beatles? :(_

**Oakay:** _As a Jude of this world, don’t you have to like that song by default?_

 **Truant Jude:** _I’ll start hating it as revenge for you singing it at me incessantly._

 **Oakay:** _You’re mean :(_

 **Truant Jude:** _You’re just now figuring this out?_

 **TareBear:** _So FaceTime later? I miss your face._

 **Truant Jude:** _Look in the mirror, maybe you’ll miss it less._

 **TareBear:** _That’s not a no…_

 **Truant Jude:** _It’s a depends._

**TareBear:** _On?_

**Truant Jude:** _If my flatmate is being an absolute fuck._

**Vivi the Henchman:** _So 50/50?_

 **Truant Jude:** _Sounds about right._

**Vivi the Henchman:** _What did you say his name was again?_

**Truant Jude:** _Cardan the Absolute Worst._

**Vivi the Henchman:** _Got it. Unrelated but let us know if you need help burying a body._

 **Truant Jude:** _You’ll be the first to know._

The next few hours pass in a smear of shadows across my bedroom wall, the setting sun’s light peering through the slatted blinds, and a very loud video chat with my siblings.

Oak got his braces off today and keeps running his tongue over his teeth distractedly as he describes, in full detail, a new lemon bar recipe he made. He tells me about his online classes and how much they suck. I tell him middle school sucks in general, but this probably only makes it worse.

Vivi tells me about the website she built for Renegades Base, the comic book shop she and Heather co-own. The store itself has been closed since the start of quarantine, but they’ve been working tirelessly to get an online version up and running.

“We’ve even got a delivery feature!” Vivi explains, excitedly. “It’s like Grub Hub but for comic books.”

I nod and tell her it sounds great.

And finally, after she shows me her new sewing kit and cross stitch pattern, Taryn announces that she met a boy—which is the least surprising information of all. She’s always meeting boys.

It’s only when I hang up that I realise I went the whole conversation without saying a word about my own life. Not that I have all that much to tell.

I wake up. I eat. I do work if there’s any to do. I argue with Cardan. I punch my bag to let off steam. Sometimes I take pictures with my work camera. I sleep if I can.

Still, it would’ve been nice to have been asked.

I guess I don’t blame my siblings for their overeagerness. I’m reminded of the time I spent the holidays in Insweal with a couple coworkers, and how my sisters talked my ear off the whole car ride home. Or how every summer after Taryn and I got back from camp, we’d be bombarded by stories from Vivi and Oak.

Sharing things about themselves has always been their way of communicating how much they’ve missed me. It’s not their fault I don’t share things unless prompted.

I switch off the lamp on my bedside table and roll over. And over and over.

The pillow is too warm. I’m too hot with the covers, so I kick them off. I’m cold without them, so I pull them back up. Back and forth.

I stare at the ceiling like it’s my natural born enemy.

I think of Cardan and his hateful face. The way he looked at me when I got out of the shower. Those pretentious prick glasses on the arrogant slope of his nose. The atrocious beauty of his eyes, drinking in the sight of me in my towel like black water delighting in the idea of pulling me under.

I think of his words and the little snort he gave. _You can say that again._ The ridiculous ripple of his hair. _Take your shit with you._

I grimace.

Flinging the covers aside, I sit up and scrub a hand over my face. It’s one in the morning and I’m in the foulest of moods. The kind of mood where it feels like you’ve swallowed something acrid, the flavour permeating your head like a sharp tangle of thorns.

Though, it may be due to the fact that, through the fuss of the video call, I forgot to eat dinner. My stomach growls. I decide some food might settle me, and lumber out of bed.

After some rummaging around and dropping a pot or two, it’s quiet in the kitchen save for my knife against the cutting board, the boiling of the rice on the stove, and the buzz of the fluorescents.

I’m making dad’s favourite lemon rice dish. Some nostalgia might be just what I need.

Suddenly, a throat clears behind me.

I whip around, knife in hand. Cardan stands there, glaring. The looming storm clouds of dark circles beneath his eyes make him look twice as menacing.

“Jesus, fuck,” I hiss, lowering my knife. “You scared me.” I didn’t even hear his door open, much less his approach.

“That’s odd,” Cardan says, “Considering the amount of noise _you’re_ making.” He looks awful. Or about as awful as someone like Cardan is capable of looking.

I blink, unsure of how to respond to his ire. I am so unused to it. Usually, _I_ am the ireful one. “I’m making dinner,” I tell him.

“At one in the fucking morning?”

I glower, folding my arms across my chest. “I forgot to eat earlier.” If he keeps me from my meal any longer I think I might actually feel like punching something tonight.

“Just like you _forgot_ your shit in my bathroom earlier?” Cardan narrows his eyes. “Or how you’re always _forgetting_ to do your dishes or clean up after yourself? Did you _forget_ that there might be other people trying to sleep at this hour, too?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can we not do this right now?”

He barks a laugh. “Oh, that’s _rich_ coming from you, love.” Cardan looks at me now with a grating fierceness that makes my head roil.

I grip the handle of my knife. We’ve already angered each other enough today. If we take this any further now, I’m not sure there will be any going back.

I turn away, ignoring him, and set the knife down on the cutting board. I take the pot off the stove and carry it to a strainer in the sink.

“So what?” Cardan says, following me around the island. “You’ll only argue when it’s convenient for _you?_ When it suits _you?_ ”

Steam licks my face as I pour the contents of the pot over the strainer. “Just because you desire my attention, honey, doesn’t mean you get it.”

“Oh, I see.” He’s beside me at the sink, towering over me as I sift the rice. “Can’t take the heat, huh?”

My hands grip the handles of the strainer, blood racing with the prospect of a fight. But as much as I want to glare a blade between his brows, I also don’t want to give him the satisfaction of even a cursory glance. So I continue sifting.

“Or maybe,” Cardan continues in a dangerous, silken voice, “You’re just afraid.”

I slam the strainer down in the bottom of the sink and turn on him. He blinks, taken aback. Then his lips curl into a goading smirk.

“I’m not afraid,” I say as calmly as I can manage.

“Aren’t you though?” he says. “You push and push your luck, but when someone has the balls to call you on your bullshit, you run away.”

“I don’t think you’re quite qualified to psycho-analyse me,” I simper, and turn back to the cutting board. I need to do something with my hands, to keep them from shaking. Or punching his face.

“You’re avoiding this conversation just like you avoid every other inconvenient thing in your life,” he says. “Think you can just pretend it away, do you?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re a coward.”

A loud _thwap_ sounds as I wheel around and strike him clean across the cheek. It happens so quickly. And then all I can hear is blood roaring in my ears.

The sick part is, I can’t decide which sound I like best.

At first, Cardan looks stunned. He brings a hand up to his face. Then gives me an awful sort of smile. “So I hit home, then.”

I take a step towards him so we are almost nose to nose. He smells of citrus and the metallic burn of indignation. “No,” I say, “But call me a coward again and I will.” Before he can respond, I turn on my heel and stalk out of the kitchen.

I can hear his footsteps following behind me. He’s either stupid or he underestimates me. Both are shit decisions on his part.

I spin around, prepared to strike again, but Cardan sees my fist flying this time. He grabs it, mid-swipe, and we lock eyes. There’s an unfettered sort of look in his. Something ticks in his jaw.

Then, he lunges.

His forearm is an iron stripe across my chest as he pushes me back. My shoulders thud against the wall, rattling the bones of this apartment as he moves flush against me. Cardan nudges his knee between my thighs, spreading them apart.

My heart rages. I can hardly think past my pounding heart.

“You,” he seethes, “Need to learn some fucking manners.”

“And you,” I spit back, “Don’t get to tell me what to fucking do.”

“Is that so?” He presses harder against me. I don’t think we’ve ever been this close before. So close that his body almost covers mine completely. So close that I could taste him. If I wanted. “Pretty big talk for someone currently held at my mercy.”

Cardan is stronger than I expect. There is nothing gentle about the way he’s holding me. I am pinned up against this wall like something taxidermied. Or Jesus.

But I am stronger than he is. If he is iron, I am the fire that will forge him.

Plus, he’s left my hands free, which is decidedly _not_ how you keep a person from escaping. I can think of about six different ways I can break out of this hold using just my hands alone. I can do anything I want to him.

_Fucking amateur._

The funny thing is, I know all of this, and yet I do nothing. I feel his breath hot on my face. I listen to his ragged breathing, in tandem with my own. I don’t try to escape.

“You think you can hold me?” I manage a scoff, giving him a once over. “Oh, honey. There’s nothing you can do to me that I don’t _let_ you do first.”

He does not hide his contempt for me, now. I suppose when you’re pinioned against each other as we are, there’s no room for masks. Still, it is a sick thrill to look at Cardan’s face and see the hatred that cavorts there. To watch it pool in his eyes like oil. Slip across the snowy bluffs of his jaw.

With no small amount of horror, I realise something. I ache for it. That jaw. The damson plum pillow of his lips against my pulse. Teeth and heat scraping at my core, the punch-drunk frenzied attempt at climbing inside each other’s skin.

And since there are no room for masks, I suppose that shows on my face, too.

His mouth slips into a smirk. I stare at it. It is the only thing that binds me. He leans in and my heart leaps into my throat, desperate.

_Pathetic._

“I wonder then, love,” Cardan breathes against the shell of my ear, “Just how far you’d _let_ me go.” His free hand starts a trail on my thigh, moving higher and higher.

My breath hitches and a single perilous thought enters my mind. Maybe I want this. My blood a thunderstorm in my veins, his weight against me like the world, pushing out all other thoughts but him.

His hands and eyes contradict each other on my body. One arm still braced against me, the fingers of his wandering hand are feather-light on my skin. Yet he looks at me with black and bitter unforgiving.

Desire curls deep in my core. I should shove away. I should twist out of his grasp, knee him in the balls for good measure.

His hand reaches the band of my shorts and he thumbs it. It takes everything in me not to squeeze my thighs together. Or grind down on his leg, which is still pinned firmly between mine.

I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that the only things I’ve craved today, the only things I’ve craved for a while, are friction and him.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers. “Say please.”

When he leans in again, his teeth graze my ear. He bites it, and a soft moan escapes me.

I don’t tell him anything.

I can feel his smile against my ear as he slips a hand, cool and sure, below my waistband. I shock myself by letting him. I shock myself even more by angling my hips forward.

I think he’s shocked by that too, because his gaze widens for a fraction of a second—then turns hungry.

His hands graze the apex of my thighs and I feel myself pulse. The moment he swipes his fingers up my core, feels the treacherous arousal there, Cardan emits something between a groan and a curse.

My hands ball into fists at my sides. I know I’m fucking soaked through. I can feel the slick come away on Cardan’s fingers. My cheeks don’t show me any mercy, either. They’re blazing. My body seems intent on the worst sort of betrayal.

But no matter how deep my hatred for him goes, I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want this. _Gods,_ do I want this. I want this so bad, it’s the only clear thought in my head.

“You really like it like this, don’t you?” Cardan rasps. His dark eyes are hooded with desire. He may be mocking me with his words, but we are both ruined for wanting. “I wonder which part gets you off most,” he hums against my ear, voice spilling over me like honey. “Is it the way I’m speaking to you?”

My fists clench at my sides as he cups my sex. He’s teasing me now, I know. But I won’t give him more fuel by rutting against his hand for whatever futile friction it might provide.

“Is it the way I’m holding you down?” Cardan presses into me and I can feel the stiff length of him through his joggers.

I swallow. _Holy hell._ If I wasn’t a desperate mess before, I certainly am now. My breathing is so uneven, it’s embarrassing. My knees, so weak if he moved away, I’m not sure I’d be able to stand on my own.

“Or is it this?” Cardan begins tantalising circles with his thumb over my bundle of nerves, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. My head goes all foggy with sensation.

He snorts. “It’s this,” he says, “Isn’t it?”

Then, he changes his pace, circling faster, harder. I can hardly breathe for the pleasure ripping through me. My hands grab for something, anything, and land on his back, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.

My eyes mash shut. If I am pretending anything away, it is this. It is that _Cardan_ is the one making me feel this way. Making me feel raw and ravenous and consumed by desire. Making me feel better than I will ever let him know.

“Do you want me, Jude?”

“I _hate_ you,” I spit.

Abruptly, he stops. My eyes fly open, about to protest, but he’s glaring at me, now. The force of it is stronger than his arm pinning me in place.

“Oh believe me, love,” he says. “I know. But you’re not stupid. Answer my question.”

I bite my lip. I could end this before it really begins. It’d be the truly smart thing to do. But right now, I don’t want to be smart. I want to be the farthest thing from smart. I want to be reckless.

“Yes,” I grit out. That’s all I’ll give him and if it’s not enough, then _he_ will be the one to draw, not I.

Cardan seems to know this because he continues his slow torment. “Will you beg for me, then?”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, I intend to,” he says. “In fact, I won’t stop until you say please.”

All I can manage in response is a whimper. Cardan grins. Then, he dips one finger past my folds.

I suck in a ragged breath.

“You’re positively drenched, love,” he hisses. That finger curls deliciously inside me.

My head lolls back, cracking against the wall. I can’t think past the pernicious ache coiling in my belly, the wickedness of his touch, his finger pumping slowly, in and out. How much I hate him for how good it feels, and how much I hate myself for liking it so much.

I cling to him as he quickens his pace. My hands go to his hair, taking a fistful at the nape of his neck. He hums appreciatively and bites my ear, my jaw, my neck. Suckling and swirling his tongue over the tender skin there.

He must feel how my pulse races. It’s a relief, for once, that I don’t care. He’s knuckle deep inside me and I can feel him rock-hard against my hip. We hold each other’s desire by the throat.

I grow desperate, now, grinding down on his palm. He doesn’t allow me the extra friction. Instead, he adds a second finger and drives on. A moan rolls past my tongue.

It’s all so strange. This morning I was thinking about breaking his jaw with my fist. Now, my fist is in his hair, my blood hot in my veins, his forearm still pressing me firmly into the wall. His long, flint-like fingers curl deep inside me, over and over, thrusting faster, beckoning release.

That’s what sends me careening over the edge, hips rocking furiously against his hand. My fingernails claw at his back. I tug at his hair as I cry out, biting his shoulder, a wild ecstasy sending me to blinding heights.

Cardan doesn’t seem to mind the biting, though. He just holds me as I writhe in his arms, ebbing his ministrations until I’ve settled. At the end, he keeps his promise.

“Would you like me to stop?” he murmurs into my neck, slowing to a lazy rhythm, allowing me to feel the full torturous drag of his fingers.

“Fuck,” I choke out, squeezing my eyes shut again. I’m still riding the tail end of my high, and yet, the potential for another has my heart speeding again.

“That’s nowhere close to ‘please’, love,” he says.

My hips rut at the sound of his words. When I open my eyes, he guttles me down with his gaze. His black eyes border intoxication and downright debauchery.

“You want more?” he asks, leaning in close so that I can’t see his face. The only thing left is the smell of his lemon shampoo and the sounds of our jagged pulls of breath.

He gives a diabolical swirl of his digits. I bite down on my bottom lip and am ashamed at the soft mewled “ _Yes_ ,” that escapes me before I can stop it.My fingers card his hair once more, pulling him to me.

I can feel his grin, sharp as knives against my ear. “Greedy thing.” Then he’s quickening his pace, adding his thumb back into the mix, circling against my clit in time with his pumps.

I am once more spun out and moanful against this wall. I can hardly breathe. The way he’s unspooling me is delicious and excruciating at once.

Right as I think I’m too tired, that I can’t possibly come a second time, I’m soaring anew, an aching euphoria leaping up my spine. I groan, raspy and breathless, into the crook of his neck.

Cardan does not stop. He doesn’t even slow his pace this time. He seems more determined than ever to get what he wants—my surrender.

A low, guttural growl rumbles in his chest as he plunges a third finger inside me. I see stars at the wave of new sensation that streaks through my core.

I am flushed and fucked out on his hand, squirming against him, against the wall. Hooking my leg around his waist, crushing him to me as his rhythm becomes punishing.

I don’t want him to ever stop. If he doesn’t stop soon, I think I might die.

He bites my neck and I whimper. The sopping slick sounds of his fingers working my core are obscene. I feel that dark tendril of desire building, impossibly, in my spine until I’m trembling.

He stifles a groan against my throat. The thrum of it is wicked sin and I throw my head back as another orgasm slams into me. And into me and into me. I’m writhing once more in his arms.

I’m unsure how much more of this I can take. There’s a lump in my throat at the painful pleasure of overstimulation. Cardan continues moving deep in me. Because I haven’t told him to stop. Because I haven’t said please.

It’s almost unbearable.

My forehead thuds against his shoulder in defeat. “ _Cardan,_ ” I sob into his chest. “ _Please._ ”

Immediately, Cardan goes still. I almost cry out in relief. I’m quivering with the intensity of my release. I have a fistful of his shirt, another of his hair. I don’t let go.

Cardan’s breath is a balm against my neck. I feel myself pulsing around his fingers.

I am, yet again, overcome with the strangeness of it all. Of how I hate him so much, but somehow, I’m clinging to him as if I like him more than anything in the world. I know he hates me, too, but the way he strokes my hair feels like the farthest thing from that.

Everything is heavy, like I’m made entirely of lead. I am glad, now more than ever, for his pinning me against this wall. I don’t fool myself in thinking I could remain upright on my own.

When I lean back against the wall again, he studies my face with that same, odd expression from before. I look at him from beneath weighted lids, my breath still ragged in my chest. I try not to let my embarrassment show. And probably fail tremendously.

I watch as he removes his fingers from me, slow. I swallow, audibly. I think he’s going to let go of me, but he doesn’t. Instead, Cardan looks me dead in the eyes, lifts his fingers to his mouth, and sucks them clean.

“Delicious,” he hums.

If I hadn’t just come three times I think that would’ve been enough to drive me to the edge again. As it stands, all I can manage is a soft keening sound.

He chuckles. “Can you stand?”

 _Fucking bastard._ I hate that he knows what he’s capable of. I’d like to slap him for it, but I am completely drained.

So I say, “Yes,” mostly to spite him, and give in to the weight of my lids.

“Liar.” I can hear the sneer in his voice. Without warning, I’m against a different solid surface. His chest.

“If this is your take on a fight,” I say, words slurring in my stupor, “Maybe we should spar more often.”

Cardan snorts and says nothing. He probably thinks I’m stupid for even suggesting it, but I can’t find it in me to care.

The swaying motion of his gait lulls me as he carries me back down the hall. He hasn’t even made it to my room before I feel the gentle tug of sleep.

I’m vaguely aware of my bed under my back. The soft sweep of sheets over me. Before he shuts the door, I think Cardan says, “Until we spar again.”

But it’s more likely that I dreamed it.

**☽☽☽☽☽**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Wall pinning will forever be my favourite trope. I’m so sorry this took so long to get to you guys, but I wanted to get it just right for you, and I'm really happy with how it turned out! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter because I definitely had A Time writing it.   
> Thank you so much to everyone who has shown their love and support for this fic over the past few weeks! If you liked this chapter, please do let me know in the comments. I’m shit at responding in a timely manner but I WILL respond to every single one in due course, and they absolutely make my day.  
> I am slightlyrebelliouswriter23 on Tumblr. All my works are posted there, as well.   
> Back to the forest now!  
> -Em 🖤💫


	3. Watermelon Sugar, Verse 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am nowhere near sated. Ever since I licked her off my fingers, I've craved the taste of her like the next high.  
> "Tell me a lie, Cardan," she says now, and I feel raw at the sound of my name on her lips again. "Just one, tiny lie?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'll say it for all of us: fucking FINALLY.
> 
> CW: mature themes, vulgar language, NSFW CONTENT (between the “~~” in case you want to skip) READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

**[Cardan POV]**

I’ve never been one to turn-tail, but I swear I’ve never walked anywhere faster than I do now. Down the hallway, back through the kitchen’s caustic light. My room isn’t any less damning.

The feeling of her clings to me, a film. A ghost. She is everywhere but back in her bed where I left her. She haunts me, and I hate it.

It sets me pacing around my room like something caged, hungry. I wear creaks into the floorboards. I’ll probably be getting the broomstick treatment from the neighbours soon enough, but I don’t care.

I can’t stop thinking of the warmness of her skin. The pine and bitter orange of my body wash wreathed around her neck as she moaned my name.

I really should be more peeved that she stole something else of mine during her little foray into my shower, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t do something to me. Something reprehensible, like make me crave her.

_Jesus fuck, save me._

My heart is pounding like some blasted gavel of sovereign judgement. I’m surprised there’s anything left to circulate with all the blood that’s rushing to my dick.

I’m still hard as goddamn life itself. So naturally, I rub one out. It doesn’t take long—I’m so on edge already.

The memory of her, soaking wet and clenching around my fingers is still fresh in my mind. It plays on a loop until I’m coming harder than I’ve made myself come in a long time. Maybe ever.

I have to strain to be quiet, pressing my face into the pillow.

I am rotten to my core. A fucking waste of space. _Who does this?_ Who sinks so low that they’d cross as many lines as I have tonight?

I didn’t mean to fuck her. I really didn’t. Even when I’d fantasied about it, it was only ever that. A fantasy. I never thought I’d act on it—much less _want_ it. Until I had her pinned against the wall. Then, I knew I was in deep shit.

Of course, none of it was real. It was just pent-up sexual frustration that made us do what we did. It was quarantine peppered with a refined mutual loathing. I’m quick to remind myself that according to just about every news source over the past month, _this is a traumatic time for all of us._

I tell myself this so that, like the wanker I am, I can roll over, wipe myself off with a discarded T-shirt, and fall asleep quicker than my climax.

☽☽☽☽☽

My dreams are a muddled mess of streets I don’t know, unfamiliar alleyways. An abandoned swimming pool filled with pink water. I jump off the edge into the deep end, and the only thing I know is Jude’s sweet sounds eddying around the bottom, carrying me with them.

I wake up sweaty and agitated. The sun blazes through the windows, scorching my retinas from the moment I open my eyes. And because God has apparently decided that I am a joke, I’m also half-hard.

I don’t even question why. I know. The answer ticks a muscle in my jaw, but at least it fills me with something other than nothing for once.

It’s not a pleasant sort of feeling, getting off to someone you hate. It’s punishment and pleasure, coalesced by some strange perversion. Like running or eating really spicy food. Or the adrenaline fever of falling. All addictions in their own right.

Yet, I stroke myself to full attention anyway.

The memory of last night pushes itself to the forefront. It’s probably wrong, reliving what we did for my own satisfaction. I’m probably a creep for even considering it. She’s not here, and she hates me. We hate each other. I’m no poster child for morality, but surely sticking on some porn would be more commendable than this.

Except, she’s in my head, demanding to be seen. And I’m just the fool who sees her. Over and over. So I keep a leisurely pace over my length.

When I close my eyes, she’s writhing against me again, making me throb through the constraint of my joggers. She trembles around my hand as I kiss her neck.

Every indecent sound fogs the air between us. Her moans, my laboured breathing. The wet sounds of my fingers knuckle-deep inside her, fucking her flushed and keening.

The hook of her leg claiming my waist drives me mad. Her hands tug at my hair, nails clawing my shirt, my back. When she bites my shoulder as she comes, I’m nearly driven off the edge untouched.

Of course, here in my bedroom, I’m far from that. I’m pumping myself for all I’m worth and straight to sin. My grip tightens, and I think of those two words in her throat like cut glass as she came.

_Cardan. Please._

Climaxing to her is both unexpected and inevitable. Kind of like that feeling right before you fall down a flight of stairs. Shock that your feet have slipped out from under you, dread as you realise what’s coming.

And then I do, hips stuttering as I spill over onto my stomach. Through the sharp hiss of breath between my teeth, I find myself wishing it was her stomach instead. I mash my eyes shut.

_Fuck me._

There’s a sheen of sweat on my brow. I wipe it off on my forearm before reaching for the same filthy shirt from the night before. I don’t exactly feel better. I’m breathless and a little less pent-up.

Mostly I just feel disgusting.

Showering is a quick fix to almost any problem. Including a sticky mess, which I have unfortunately made in every sense of the term.

In the mirror, I notice a massive bruise coming up on my right shoulder where she bit me. I should’ve known I would never get away from her unscathed. I wonder briefly if I left any blue reminders on her.

Then I grimace. I'm a sick fuck through and through.

When I’m done, I throw on a clean shirt and some black jeans. It’s the first time I’ve worn anything other than pyjamas in a fortnight, but it feels good to be in something fresh.

I have my hand on the doorknob when I hear it. The sizzling of the frying pan, the clatter of dishes. And a soft hummed rendition of a song I vaguely recognize, off-key as it is. My mind starts whirring.

_Something came over us last night._

_We weren’t ourselves._

_We should just go back to hating each other from a distance. It’s better that way._

A slew of excuses runs through my head, and yet I stand here frozen with my hand on the knob. Thankfully, for once during this godforsaken day, it’s not my knob I’m holding.

I have no doubt she regrets it. No doubt she would agree it was a mistake.

But I’m chicken shit, so I plop down on my bed and check my messages. Shockingly, I actually have some, though they’re all from the only person who ever bothers to message me.

**Nespresso_DS:** Read the newest blog update! Some really great stuff.

 **Nespresso_DS:** A scathing but accurate take on our criminal justice system.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Professor Noggle would be proud.

My mouth quirks.

**Greenbriar13:** Thanks for that glowing review. Can I quote you on my home page?

 **Nespresso_DS:** I’d be honoured.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Speaking of criminals, how’s that roomie of yours? Haven’t heard you mention her in a while.

I groan, rolling over to my stomach. How is it that this is the exact topic I wanted to avoid thinking about—not to mention, the mortifying ordeal of _talking_ about it—and yet, she sniffs it out like the last line of cocaine at a house party?

She always did have that uncanny ability to ask the right questions when we were in uni. The ones that make people tick. Once, she questioned one of our lecturers out of his own argument. Stunned everyone in the class. Made me laugh stitches into my sides.

I'm not laughing now, though. This is karma biting into the fleshiest bit of my ass.

I consider telling her to fuck off and mind her own, but that would only make her suspicious. Even if we are just casual friends at best. I made the unfortunate mistake of grousing about Jude during the first week of her being here. And as these things seem to go, people like to be included in other people’s lives.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. As much as I hate the prospect of doing anything but burying this mistake as far back into the bowels of my memory as it will go, even I have to admit it might be nice to have someone who knows.

**Greenbriar13:** Fret not. She’s still terrible.

 **Greenbriar13:** But… I may have fucked up.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Do my eyes deceive me? Cardan Greenbriar, actually admitting he’s wrong?

 **Greenbriar13:** Don’t get used to it.

 **Nespresso_DS:** You must’ve _really_ fucked up.

Her analysis makes me snort. If she only knew.

**Greenbriar13:** Royally.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Care to share? Or are you going to leave me in the dark forever?

 **Greenbriar13:** Okay, but before I tell you, you have to swear on your life that you won’t tell anyone.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Drama queen much? Who am I gonna tell anyway?

 **Greenbriar13:** I’m not fucking around.

 **Greenbriar13:** Swear it.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Fine. I swear. Now spill.

I blow out a lungful of air. This is going to be the opposite of fun. I don’t know why I have such a hard time typing it out, but I do. I sit there for a couple seconds just letting the cursor blink at me before I hit send.

**Greenbriar13:** We may have hooked up.

 **Nespresso_DS:** MAY HAVE??

 **Greenbriar13:** Yeah. Lower your voice.

 **Nespresso_DS:** I’M TYPING.

 **Greenbriar13:** Sure, but you’re also shouting at your phone.

 **Greenbriar13:** I can hear it from across the city.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Fuck you.

 **Greenbriar13:** Anyway.

 **Greenbriar13:** I think it was a big mistake.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Okay, wait. Spare me the gory details but… how far exactly did you go?

 **Greenbriar13:** What are we 12?

 **Nespresso_DS:** I’m asking, you condescending toad, because “hooked up” is a bit of an ambiguous term.

 **Nespresso_DS:** And in order for me to help you determine just how badly you fucked up, I need to know if you made out like high schoolers in the back of the cinema, or if you slept together.

 **Greenbriar13:** We didn’t sleep together.

 **Greenbriar13:** At least, no sleep was involved. Or a bed.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Fewer details, please! Just give it to me straight.

 **Greenbriar13:** Okay, fine.

 **Greenbriar13:** Honestly, I don't know what the fuck happened. One minute I was wondering how I could legally kick her out of the flat, the next I have her up against the wall with my fingers inside her.

 **Nespresso_DS:** DUDE.

 **Greenbriar13:** Look, I thought she would stop me, okay? And then she didn't.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Dear god, for someone with an English degree, your reading comprehension skills are astounding.

 **Greenbriar13:** You asked.

 **Nespresso_DS:** I _asked_ for fewer details.

 **Greenbriar13:** Idk what to say, Strong. That’s in direct contradiction with telling you what happened.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Less specifics would be nice. Personally, I have no desire to imagine you in any sexually compromising positions.

A loud crash sounds from the kitchen, making me jolt upright. A string of disembodied curses follows, and I almost throw all caution to the wind. Then I remember that we hate each other. That I made her come three times last night. That I just jerked myself off to the memory of it— _twice_ —and immediately decide against it.

Grimacing, I return to my conversation.

**Greenbriar13:** Likewise. Now, do you have advice for me or not?

 **Nespresso_DS:** Someone’s grumpy.

 **Greenbriar13:** Yeah, well. I’m not exactly happy about this particular development.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Okay, have you guys talked since?

 **Greenbriar13:** It was last night. So no.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Shit. That recent?

 **Greenbriar13:** Yeah.

 **Nespresso_DS:** And you haven’t seen each other?

 **Greenbriar13:** No.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Are you hiding from her?

I look towards the door and, as if on cue, my stomach growls. It's nearly eleven, and I haven't eaten since the miserable Cup O' Noodles I had for dinner last night.

Maybe Strong has a point. I’m being pathetic.

Jude never attempts to make herself unseen or unheard. She's in the kitchen right now, clanging her dishes about with the same haphazard vigour as always. Despite what happened last night; or perhaps _in spite_ of it.

My jaw clenches.

**Greenbriar13:** I'd call it tactful avoidance.

I'd set myself on fire before admitting it, but I envy Jude a little. She doesn't need recognition; she governs it. She takes up space. Like it's hers to claim. That's what annoys me most, I think.

Water is running in the kitchen sink now, and my mind drifts to the way Jude looked right before she slapped me. How every sharp line of her face was intentional, as if she'd carved out this bit of defiance just for me.

Maybe that's the crux of it, the way she looked at me. Not like I was someone to be dealt with, like how the scumbags from my pre-quarantine life looked at me. But like I was someone to be reckoned with.

Last night was the first semblance of control I've had in a long time. She was letting me do it, but it tasted like being witnessed. I think I'd sell my soul to feel that way again.

I hear the sink shut off in the kitchen. Her footsteps are weighted like a fist buffeting a door, and they fade down the hall.

For a P.I., she sure does make a mockery of stealth. Maybe that's her intention. To be heard, because she knows if she’s loud enough, I’ll cower in here. Or it's a warning. Something like: _Wait your turn and save us both some misery._

Down the hall, her door slams. Shut tight like the end of a conversation.

I slide off the bed and poke my head out of my room. Met only with silence, I take my phone and my pride and head straight for the coffee.

Yesterday's mug is sitting in the drying rack. I notice she’s left her pan to “soak” again, and it makes me want to barge into her room, tell her not to expect me to clean it this time. I won't be so generous in my retaliation as I was last night, and she can go fuck herself if she thinks otherwise.

But that would require actually talking to her. Plus, I'm not sure that's even an honest statement. If anyone is fucking her for being a pain in my ass, it'll be me. I want to be balls deep in retribution.

Regrettably, that won't clean the pan.

I add three spoonfuls of instant coffee to my mug, because I can already feel a three spoonful kind of headache perforating between my brows. I stick some bread in the toaster and put the kettle on.

A message pops up on my phone.

**Nespresso_DS:** Sounds like code for hiding.

 **Greenbriar13:** Piss off.

 **Nespresso_DS:** Okay. But before I do, my advice would be to just talk to her.

 **Greenbriar13:** What’s there to talk about? It was a mistake. She knows it. I know it.

 **Nespresso_DS:** If that’s how you feel, tell her. Cut it off at the root.

 **Greenbriar13:** I’m not exactly inclined to share my feelings with someone like her. We’re not emotionally involved.

The kettle comes to a boil. I pour water over the instant coffee grounds, stirring mindlessly for a moment.

Maybe hating someone counts as being emotionally involved. But I shake my head, because that's semantics at best.

My phone buzzes again.

**Nespresso_DS:** I’m not saying you are. But you should create some boundaries. Especially if you don’t want anything like that happening again.

 **Greenbriar13:** I don’t.

As soon as I send the message, I know it’s about as truthful as one of those shitty horoscopes next to the crossword puzzles in newspapers. They're ridiculous, but after I've finished the crossword, I always end up reading them anyway.

Except, even if they're not true, horoscopes at least have some wet noodle of consistency running through them. My message is a lie, no matter how you cut it. But Strong doesn’t need to know that I haven’t stopped thinking about the many ways I want something like that to happen again.

How high I get off the thought alone.

**Nespresso_DS:** Then draw the line, Greenbriar.

My toast pops up from the toaster. I pocket my phone and retreat to my room with my haul.

There’s a stack of manuscripts waiting for me on the bedside table and an email from my sleazebag boss waiting in my inbox. Looming. I bite into my toast and open it.

_Cardan,_

_If you could have that manuscript marked up and handed in to me by the end of the day, that would be great. Legal wants to take a look at it._

_Regards,_

_Locke, Senior Editor, Revel Press._

Absolute fucking pisstake. 

I told him _weeks_ ago that taking on this manuscript would be more trouble than it was worth. But Locke insisted he wanted to "corner out the market" or whatever the fuck. Of course, when we got landed with the damn thing, it got dumped onto _my_ desk.

The manuscript is a historical sci-fi erotica set in the Peak District. And if that horrifying combination of sub-genres doesn't scare you, the author chose to call it _Peak Romance_. The title alone is probably deserving of several litigations on account of it being dreadful, but that's not the reason the legal team at Revel Press would've flagged it.

I've read half of it, and so far, it's basically the off-brand and slightly raunchier version of Outlander. Locke's idea of cornering out the market seems to be riding the coattails of any mainstream pop-culture wave.

Locke's idea of "within the month", the time frame I was given for this project, seems to be eight days after receiving the editor's copy. There's no way I'm going to have the rest of the manuscript done in the next few hours, so I type out a response.

_I can have it to you by Thursday._

_-Cardan_

Within minutes, I get a reply.

_Cardan,_

_That's three days away. Legal wants it now._

_Regards,_

_Locke, Senior Editor, Revel Press._

I roll my eyes. Insufferable twat.

_I can give you the whole manuscript by Thursday, or I can give you the first half today and the second half Thursday._

_-Cardan_

Usually, I might roll over and skim through as much as I can to appease him. But I'm not feeling so forgiving today.

Part of me wonders if recent events have influenced me more than I’m aware. Either way, Locke has no grounds to be making demands of me. Especially impossible ones.

My laptop pings.

_Cardan,_

_Thursday is fine._

_Locke_

Satisfied, I scarf down the rest of my toast and grab my pen.

☽☽☽☽☽

The next few days pass in a flurry of red pen scribbles and manuscript pages.

I wake up, make coffee and a plate of breakfast which I eat in my room. I water my plants, sit at my desk or sprawl out on the bed or floor doing markups until my hand cramps. Or I need more coffee or a piss. I avoid common areas like Corona itself.

I try not to think about the other night. And fail with flying colours. It doesn't help that I'm editing a bloody erotica novel, of all things. I oscillate violently between hating Jude and craving the taste of her.

I take lots of cold showers.

By Wednesday, I only have about eighty pages of the manuscript left to go. I've actually grown quite fond of it.

 _It's not so bad,_ I think, late that night as I lay on my stomach on the bedroom floor amongst all the papers. Possibly, this is the Stockholm Syndrome talking. I could've sworn I hated the thing at first.

My eyes itch from exhaustion and staring at tiny font all day. The shitty desk lamp is the only light on in my room, casting odd shadows across my work.

I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes. Perhaps it's time for another coffee.

Peeking my head out into the hall, I only make my way to the kitchen when I'm sure the coast is clear. It's nearly 2AM, so I have to be quiet.

Slinking to the kettle, I fill it with tap water and flick it on, grabbing the instant coffee from my cupboard while I wait. My eyes land on a bottle of high-end cognac shoved to the back. Saved for a good day—or a particularly shitty one.

I pause. I'm not sure why my eyes fixate on it. Something about it feels familiar. Not the bottle itself, which I'd all but forgotten.

In the shadows of the shelves, it's the exact colour of Jude's eyes. Maybe that's why I pull it down, to see how it looks in the light. Maybe I want to get drunk off of it, just a little. Maybe if I got drunk off of Jude's eyes, I could stop thinking about them all together.

It's at that exact moment that the door to Jude's room rips open. I can see it from where I'm leaning against the kitchen counter. She steps into the hallway, a hand towel slung over her arm, hair swept back into a bun.

When she sees me, she freezes. Her cheeks warm beautifully, her jaw tightens, and my heart does this stupid thing in my chest that feels a whole lot like choking.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, all owl-eyed and unmoving. The corners of my mouth quirk up in a reflexive smirk. Which was apparently the wrong move.

She looks murderous, like she'd like to slap me again for being so bold as to look at her, especially like this. But I can't help it. I can't stop looking.

I'm still cradling this bottle of cognac like the arsehole that I am. My mouth opens and snaps shut again.

Then, she tears her gaze from mine and ducks into the bathroom across the hall. When I'm alone, the only sound I hear is blood rushing in my ears. I swallow. I'm going to need a couple knuckles of that brandy it seems.

☽☽☽☽☽

The next morning, I wake to a pounding headache and Jude's incessant alarms blaring from the other room. I grunt, pinching the bridge of my nose. Everything is too bright.

The goddamn windows in this room. I meant to get curtains for them months ago, but of course, I've had other things on my mind.

My neck has a wicked crick in it, and I go to roll it. That's when I realise, I'm on the floor.

Last night, I ditched the coffee for something stronger. Two glasses of cognac later, I'd finished marking up _Peak Romance_ and promptly fell asleep, forgoing the bed entirely. I know I'm going to regret my idiocy later. But I have things to do.

Jude's alarm is on full blast again. It grates against my ears, setting my teeth on edge. There's no way a sound like that is coming all the way from her bedroom. I heave myself off the floor, rip open my door, and stalk into the sitting room.

I find her curled up under her duvet on the sofa—the sofa that conveniently shares a wall with my bed—letting her alarms wreak havoc on my eardrums while she remains far away in dream land.

I glower at her sleeping form. We haven’t spoken since the other night, but right now I’m too fuming to care that this will be our first interaction since. I want her as angry as I am.

"Jude." She doesn't budge. " _Jude_ ," I say, louder this time. Nothing. I bang on the wall a couple times. "Hello! Wake the fuck up, sunshine. Goddammit, Jude, you better not be dead. That would be really fucking inconvenient, you know that?"

"You'll be dead if you don't shut the fuck up," she gripes, screwing her eyes shut tighter and burrowing her face into the blanket.

For one moment of sheer insanity, I think it's kind of adorable. Then, I remember it's Jude, and go back to glaring.

"Ah, she lives."

" _Fuck. Off._ "

"Not a chance, love," I say, slapping the wall a couple more times for good measure. "At least, not until you're wide awake with a screaming headache like I was forced to be."

"I have a headache just from being in the same room as you," she says, lifting her face from the duvet. There’s not a trace of desire, not a hint of longing in the lines of her scowl.

I hadn’t fooled myself into believing her feelings about me would change after what happened the other night, but there was a small part of me that hoped she wouldn’t regret it, that maybe she was suffering the weight of craving me, too.

Now, it appears I have my answer.

We pin each other with livid looks for a long minute. My ears are ringing. It feels good to be angry again. To hate her. To feel anything but what I've been feeling for the past week when I think of her.

She looks like she wants a fight, and I'll be damned if I give her what she wants again.

My lips pull into a tight smile. "Good. I got what I came for."

Jude blinks, but I don't give her a second glance as I walk back down the hall into my room.

☽☽☽☽☽

As soon as I set foot in the eerily vacant lobby of Revel Press, I get a sinking feeling in my gut. This building has always made me inordinately depressed. If it weren't for the shoebox I currently live in with my menace of a flatmate, this place would easily take the cake as my personal living hell.

Something about the way the halls smell like wet socks so rank that even a mask can't staunch it; the endless expanse of beige oozing over everything; the grim carpet shifting intermittently to even grimmer linoleum and back again. It's always made me want to start chain-smoking.

Now, devoid of everyone except my slimy boss, I'm thinking coating my lungs in tobacco tar won't be self-destructive enough. I need something stronger. Like gasoline or heroin. Maybe I'll stick my head in the oven, see what all the hype was about.

As I wait for the lift, I check my phone for messages. Nothing.

The landlady still hasn't responded to my first inquiry about Jude's shower, and I've sent her two follow-up messages. I'm starting to get a little annoyed if I'm honest. It's been four days since Jude used my shower. And while she hasn't asked to use it again, her pride might be bigger than her propensity for self-care.

Or worse, maybe _I'm_ the reason she hasn't asked.

Either way, as much as I hate her, not having a working shower in your own living space is inhumane, even for Satan’s _closest_ of affiliates.

The lift arrives. I step inside, hating every square inch of the creaky old thing. My palm sweats around the manuscript shoved in a large manilla envelope, my only personal affect during this journey to hell.

Fixing the shower should be the landlady's responsibility. But I don't have time today to go hunt her down and demand she do the bare minimum.

So before I left the flat to come here, I brought my phone up to my ear and said loudly from the hallway, "I can't talk right now, mother. I'm about to step out to run some errands." A pause. "Yeah, try back at around six. Should be home by then."

Then, I pocketed my phone and slipped out of the apartment, leaving my room and bathroom doors wide open. I can only hope Jude takes the hint. Otherwise, I might have to stoop to offering.

Locke's office is on the third floor. It’s nothing fancy, by any means, but I only have a cubicle to call my own.

He's sitting there with his door open, feet up on the desk, typing something on his phone and smiling a little at the screen. I want to punch the look clean off his pompous face.

He’s got his mask scrunched up around his neck like a prick. He doesn't put it on when I enter the room.

"You're welcome," he says.

My fingers dig into the envelope. "I didn't thank you." I stand at the edge of his desk and refuse the chair he offers with a wave of his hand.

"I know." Locke gives me a sharp smile. "But you should."

"Yeah? Why is that?"

"Oh, I only just saved your ass from getting fired," he says, leaning back farther in his chair and folding his arms behind his head. "Legal was in an uproar over your late submission. They almost took it to corporate, but I managed to talk them down."

I can feel my nostrils flaring behind my mask. "Saving my ass? Or covering yours?"

"I told you to have it to me by Monday evening," Locke reminds me. "You couldn't deliver. I let that slide because I feel like we have a certain rapport going here."

I snort. That's the biggest stretch of the truth I've ever heard. We don't have a rapport. All we have is bad blood and a whole lot of animosity.

My eyes flit to the wall behind Locke’s head.

He keeps his space fairly simple. The only personalisations in sight are the golf-themed calendar hung up beside the bookshelf and the bulletin board full of newspaper clippings and reminders and one photo of his department on Christmas.

I’m in that photo. It was taken years ago, back when I first started here. Nicasia was there, too. She’s standing between Locke and I wearing a Santa hat that we’d forced on her head for the photo. Valerian, another editor on the team, stands on Locke’s other side with a handle of gin raised in his right hand and a shit-eating grin on his face.

I hate that photo now. And everyone in it. I have no idea why Locke has kept it up after all this time, after everything. Possibly, to remind us that we were all friends once.

He continues. "Anyway, legal was up my ass about it all week. But don't worry, they won't be holding any grudges. I worked my charm on them."

I narrow my eyes. "Funny how that charm of yours comes in handy."

"It saved your job," he says, unbothered.

I almost laugh. "No," I say. "It saved _your_ job."

"Excuse me?"

"I told you that legal would be all over this manuscript, but that didn't stop you from making the bid. You told me I had time. Three weeks to be exact."

"I thought you'd have it done by now. You really shouldn't need three weeks for one manuscript."

"Tell that to the other five manuscripts I have sitting at home."

Locke opens his mouth, then closes it. Clicks his pen. He sweeps his feet off the desk, leaning forward in his chair. "I told you this was a high priority piece, Greenbriar. A week is more than enough time."

Now, I'm seething. I don't know what I was doing before, faffing about, trying to keep my own lid on in the presence of this tool. It feels good to let everything boil over.

I lean my hands on the desk, towering over his stupid face. I know I look like my criminal, psychopath of a brother in this moment, because Locke’s eyes widen to saucers.

I’ve always sworn to be Balekin’s opposite in everything. But watching my boss cower in his desk chair, about ready to piss himself, is a dangerously delicious feeling.

"If you wanted it done by Monday,” I growl, “You probably should have edited the damn thing yourself. But I guess you were too busy fucking my girlfriend to do that." I slam the envelope down on his desk.

Locke jumps. He looks at me, visibly rattled, like he’s never seen me this way before. Probably because he never has. I’ve been keeping a stiff upper lip for far too long. Now though, I want to make it irrevocably clear that he doesn’t want to see more of this side of me.

I swipe his letter opener from the cup of pens and highlighters he keeps near his keyboard. I toss the blade in the air. It does a series of shining arcs, before the hilt lands firmly in my palm again.

Then, I throw it hard at the bulletin board on the wall behind Locke’s desk. Mercifully, I hit my mark. The letter opener thuds down on that blasted Christmas photo, slicing the too-cheery version of Locke right between the eyes.

He flinches, then pulls a face that looks like he’s going to reprimand me, but thinks better of it.

I smirk. This must be how Jude feels every time she does something to get under my skin. I hadn’t seen the appeal before, but now, it’s no wonder to me why she does it.

"I'm taking the rest of the week off.” My voice is commanding. “Tell Nicasia I hope she got paid extra for working double time."

Locke doesn't have anything to say about that. His face is frozen into a shape that looks like terror. Like he’s suddenly remembered which family I come from, what they could do to him, and is just now realising the thin line he walks.

I'd like to relish that look for longer than I do, but I have to get out of here. Before I smash something. His nose into the back of his skull is looking like a mighty tempting option right about now.

I make to leave, but pause before the threshold. "Oh yeah,” I say, turning to him. “And put your fucking mask on. You look like an idiot."

With that, I turn on my heel and stride out the door.

☽☽☽☽☽

It's only 3PM when I emerge into the blessed daylight. My ears are rushing with the sound of heavy blood.

I have three hours to kill, so I walk to blow off steam. It's a good thing, too. Locke's dumb, punchable face keeps flashing before my eyes. The way he smirked at me from behind his desk like he was untouchable.

Then, my thoughts skitter to a more loathsome image of him, burying his nose and betrayal into the crook of my girlfriend’s neck. The keening sounds, the twist of her legs and sheets around his waist, taking him deeper. The blurring of everything around me; the dull thump of my bag dropping on the wood floor of the hall; Nicasia's horrified gasp as she realised what I'd witnessed.

My stomach lurches, turning sour with the memory. I realise I haven't eaten since breakfast, but now, I don't much want to.

I want a drink—something brutal that’ll sear the back of my throat and memory. I want to get irreversibly pissed at some dodgy pub and wake up in a bed I don’t know, dick thoroughly wetted.

But I’m not sure I can handle people right now. Not without doing something moronic. My nerves feel scattered, a spill of shattered glass beneath my skin. Walking helps take the edge off, though.

The whole city is steeped in the burnt orange of a setting sun, like tea or anger brewed too long. Like the obnoxious curls on my boss’s head, or the blood I wish I’d painted his face with.

_If you are not strong enough to insight fear, you will be too weak to deserve power._

My fists clench. I hate that voice and who it belongs to. I can’t help thinking, however, that maybe those words hold a bit of truth. It felt great seeing Locke scared witless. It felt more than great. It felt like being powerful.

_We are a family of great power, Cardan. You can either be feared, or be gone._

Time and streets and people slur past me, drunk in all their rushing. I hardly notice. Suddenly, it's dark and all the shadows have melded together to paint the pavement a strangled blue.

At six, I take the bus home.

☽☽☽☽☽

When I arrive at the apartment, it's quiet. Jude's door is shut, but the floor of my shower has a few water droplets clinging to the tile, and the air feels humid. Good.

I shuck my coat off and hang it on the back of my desk chair. I strip off my shirt, too, because it feels like an extra layer of city smog. Suffocating, and I need to breathe.

Flopping down on my bed, I peel back the layers of a long day. Everything feels awful and wide open and terrifying at once.

I could get fired for what I said to Locke, for what I did. I don't think he would fire me for that. He owes me this one grace, at least. But if he decides to be graceless now, if he decides I am more hastle than I'm worth, I'll be well and truly fucked.

I slide a hand down my face.

Maybe I shouldn't have taken a week off. I don't even know what to do with myself for the rest of _today_ , much less for the next week. My reality feels tilted. If I don't do something, everything might go sliding off the edge.

Maybe I'll teach myself how to fix a broken shower.

My stomach growls. Despite my exhaustion, I really should eat. Perhaps I could also drown my restless nerves in the rest of that cognac, since I won’t have to be awake for anything tomorrow.

It's an easy thing, to slide off my bed and slip noiselessly into the kitchen. It's a harder thing to reconcile with the fact that someone is already in there. I freeze in the doorway.

Jude stands by the kettle, staring into a mug as she dips a tea bag in and out of the water. She has on a fitted black tee and loose burgundy joggers.

Her hair isn't pulled into its usual bun, but falls down her back in swells. It's still damp, and suddenly I’m remembering the last time she had her back toward me—hair dripping, bare skin slick with a sheen of water as she walked away down the hall, the swaying pendulum of her hips.

I remember thinking stupid, reckless thoughts then. I'm not much more in control of my thoughts now, it seems.

It's only as I'm trying to leave unnoticed that, of course, I am noticed.

Jude straightens. Her bottle brown eyes catch mine, narrowing to slits and pinning me in place. They sweep over my bare chest, and I feel oddly exposed. I've never been self-conscious about being shirtless, but I don't think I've ever been shirtless around _her_.

I clear my throat. "Erm... Sorry,” I say awkwardly, running a furtive hand through my hair. "Didn't know you were in here."

Jude's brow arches. “So you’re leaving?”

“Looks like it.”

“Why?” she demands, removing the tea bag from her mug. It drips the whole way to the bin. “I’m only making tea. I haven’t sectioned off the entire kitchen for myself.” She circles the island to the fridge and retrieves a jug of milk from the door.

I blow a long breath through my nose. “It might be best if we took turns,” I grumble.

“Why’s that?” She adds a splash of milk to her mug.

I narrow my eyes. “You know damn well why.”

“Because you won’t be able to resist me now that you’ve had a slice?” She bats her eyes sweetly, then adds sugar to her tea, stirring it slow.

I know she’s mocking me. It’s still hard to ignore the racing of my pulse. I’m taken aback by her bluntness. I would’ve never thought she’d admit to what happened in the shadows of that hall. At least not out loud.

My nails dig into my palms.

“Because we can’t seem to be in the same room without being at each other’s throats.”

“Really?” she asks. “I was under the impression you quite liked being at my throat.” Jude meets my gaze and brings the spoon to her mouth, sucking it clean.

 _Christ_.

I have to concentrate to keep my breathing even. I’m going to lose my fucking mind if I stay in here with her another second. But for some hellborn reason, I find myself rooted to the spot, watching those full lips work the end of the spoon.

She removes it from her mouth. “Or have you lost your edge?” Jude turns abruptly and tosses the spoon into the sink. It hits the bottom with a loud _clang_ , surprising enough to jolt me back to myself.

I shrug. “ _Veni, vidi, vici,_ I guess.”

“Oh, so you’re Shakespeare, now?”

“That was Latin.”

“Latin for what?”

“I don’t know,” I sigh, massaging my temples. “Nevermind, Jude. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

“You know what I hate more than anything?”

“Peace and quiet?” I deadpan.

“A liar,” she says, taking a sip of her tea. “I’m very good at spotting them. It’s my job.”

I know full well what her job is. Snooping around in other people’s business, finding evidence that tells her clients exactly what they want to hear so she can make an extra buck or two. Ruining people’s lives.

It makes me sick.

“I’m not lying,” I say. “It was nothing.”

She gets this smarmy tilt to her lips that tells me I’m full of shit and I know it. That _she_ knows it. While that much may be true, it doesn’t mean she gets to be privy to the information. I need to keep my vulnerabilities far from her reach.

My mouth presses to a firm line.

Jude evaluates me for a moment. Then she cocks her head to the side in a way that has me wondering what exactly she’s scheming.

“Cardan,” she says. Now, I'm enraptured. Now, there is nothing but the bright, striking shackles of my name on her tongue. She sets her mug down on the counter.

“Nothing is a bit like everything,” she says, taking a calculated step toward me. “Both are unfathomable. Do you need me to remind you what unfathomable feels like?”

My mouth goes dry as dust. I don't think I'll be able to take it if she does. I think I might go mad if she doesn't. Either way requires me to subject myself to some kind of insanity. I'm not sure which one I prefer most.

I'm a parched man with a choice between two poisons.

Not to mention the way she looks at me now, with this new resolve, conjuring up things I thought she’d be too ashamed to broach. It’s unsettling.

"I'd been trying to forget," I say, my pulse a jagged thing.

"Tell me, then.” Jude’s smile becomes wicked as she takes another step. “Have you forgotten?"

I should tell her I have. That everything we did that night was a mistake.

I try to think about her alarms this morning, the pile of dishes she leaves in the sink overnight. Her dirty laundry all over my bathroom floor, empty pizza boxes in the sitting room. The fact that she’s a filthy P.I. and our shouting matches.

But I catch a whiff of my body wash on her skin as she steps closer and suddenly the lie tangles in my throat.

"Have you forgotten how you had me pinned against that wall? Right over there." She points to the hall behind me just outside the kitchen. My jaw ticks. "How you had three of those _sinful_ fingers inside me. Or how you stroked until I begged you to stop."

_Mother of god._

My mind is racing, trying to play catch-up with her newfound edge, trying to meet her blow for blow.

She seems to have picked up the game I’ve been playing, the game of flustering her to speechlessness. And it turns out, she excels at it. Surpasses me spectacularly. I should’ve guessed as much.

She's a hand's breadth away now, so close that I feel the electric hum of her presence. My nostrils flare. Her eyes drag over my tattoos, as if lost in the imagery.

Then, she cuts her gaze to mine. It's not sultry or teasing like her voice. Her eyes are sharp, unyielding. Fully aware of the havoc she wreaks in me.

I hate it, how frozen I am. Now that we are on the same playing field, it feels a little like being always on the defense.

"Well?"

"Jude," I breathe in warning.

"Yes?" She presses herself into me, and I swear to hell I'm a goner. Every thought of how irate she makes me evaporates on the crest of her breath, a balm against my bare chest.

The only thing I can think about is skull fucking her until she has tears streaming down those pretty pink fucked-out cheeks. I'm sure I'd even settle for a taste of her sweet heat.

But fuck me if that wouldn't be the farthest thing from settling. I'm positive there's something really wrong with me, because I thought I'd be over it by now. I thought I'd take a sip and decide I'm sated.

She runs the rounded edge of her nail down my throat, right over my Adam's apple. It bobs in reflex.

I am nowhere near sated. Ever since I licked her off my fingers, I've craved the taste of her like the next high.

"Tell me a lie, Cardan," she says now, and I feel raw at the sound of my name on her lips again. "Just one, tiny lie?"

My breath comes shallow, but I stand my ground. A keen alertness thrums across my skin, as if I've been flung over a live wire. I am aware of my every move as I trail my hand up the side of Jude's arm, skating her shoulder, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

I tell myself it's the chill of the night air. The perversion of wanting something she hates. I ignore the hitch of her breath, the slight tremor of her hand against my chest.

I grip her chin between my thumb and forefinger. Her eyes seethe. A burning rage stirs up in them, like sediment muddling the water.

Now, I can see clearly.

With a firm tug, I angle her face to the side. Jude glares at me out of the corners of her eyes, cheeks blazing, but she does nothing to stop me. I begin to wonder if she likes this, the facade of my control.

Or perhaps the very illusion of control is a joke she's sharing with herself. A cruel sort of mockery.

My fingers snake to her throat, to the soft, fleshy bit right under her ear where her pulse writhes like a trapped little bird.

I smile lazily. "I did it to get it out of my system," I tell her as evenly as I can. "Out of both of our systems. Nothing more."

"And is it?" Her voice comes out a whisper. "Out of your system?"

"I've barely thought about it since." My tongue feels clumsy, bulky around those words. We stare at each other for a moment longer. Then I let go of her chin.

She swallows, squaring her shoulders. "Good. If that's the case, you shouldn't have any issue being in the same room as me." She pats my chest twice and saunters into the sitting room.

I blink. My head feels heavy, reeling with fog and the strange maddening of what has just happened.

Jude left her tea on the counter. Against my better judgement, I grab it and follow her.

She's made herself comfortable, legs curled up under her on one side of the sofa, flicking aimlessly through a streaming service. I didn't even know we could access those on the shitty television that came with the flat. I rarely use the thing.

"Well, don't just stand there," Jude says. "I promise I don't bite."

I give her a pointed look. "Oh, but that is the sweetest lie, love."

Her gaze flits to my shoulder, heat flooding her cheeks. "I'll play nice then," she sneers. Which does nothing to convince me.

“I didn't know you were capable of that."

She rolls her eyes. "I don’t want to have to walk on eggshells in my own damn house,” she says. “It's exhausting. And boring.“

"So your solution is to... watch TV? With me?” I raise my brows. “Seems a bit intimate." Without thinking, I bring the mug in my hands to my lips. I've already taken a sip before I remember it's not mine.

Jude lifts a shoulder. "I wouldn't call sitting on opposite ends of the settee and not looking at each other a particularly intimate affair. You've made me come three times, after all."

That last part makes me choke on the sip I'm half-way through taking. I immediately chide myself for letting her throw me. Considering the way she accosted me in the kitchen, I shouldn't be so shocked by her gall at this point.

I'm basically hacking up my lungs, but she gives me a bored look. "That's my tea," she says.

I look at her, disbelieving.

"I was thirsty," I say carefully. "Besides, as you've so kindly pointed out, I've made you come three times. Drinking from the same mug is hardly an intimate affair."

Jude levels me a considering look, lips pursed. "Fine," she says, turning back to the television. Which I take to mean I haven't been banished from the sitting room. Yet.

I place the mug on the coffee table and take a seat as far away from her as I can manage. Silence settles around us. She flips through the options until she finds something that piques her interest.

"You ever seen Game of Thrones?" she asks.

I shake my head. "I don't watch much of anything."

"Me either," she says. "Let's start in the middle of things." She points the remote at the TV, clicking an episode well down on the list. The screen fades to black.

I frown. I know I'm only here as a courtesy. I'm humouring her. I'll probably watch one episode and then head back to my room for the evening, assuming I last even that long.

What we watch and in what order ought to be the least of my concern, so long as it's quick.

But instead of shutting up like I should do, I blurt, “If you haven’t seen it, why start in the middle?”

Jude gives me a sidelong glance, as if gauging whether my question is one she should lower herself to answer. She huffs through her nose and presses pause.

The amber glow from the night-washed city streets outside filters through the sheers and silhouettes her frame into something predatory. A jungle cat observing a mouse who is doing something amusing, like existing.

"I _haven't_ seen it,“ she says finally. "But beginnings are boring.”

I press my lips together and nod.

"Is something wrong with that?" Jude snaps.

“You seem to think a lot of things are boring.”

Her face sharpens to a weapon-like expression and, damn it all to hell, my hands go clammy when I look at her. So I look away, wiping my palms on my jeans.

"I thought we were watching something," Jude says. "Or did you just stick around to insult me?"

Despite my thundering pulse, I manage to tip my mouth into a slow grin. "Oh, I can think of far more delicious ways to insult you, love."

Her mouth clamps shut, eyes darting back to the screen. She presses play again but I don’t hear the television. My heart is beating wildly in my ears, blocking out all other sound.

The show plays and plays. There’s lots of trekking through some barren, desolate tundra. Something about a man shackled to a woman. Or maybe the woman is shackled to the man. I'm not paying mind enough to notice.

Jude sits like a thumbprint in the corner of my vision. I'm looking at the screen but my attention dips toward her. Her still-damp hair, her legs tucked to her chest, fingers fiddling with the cuffs of her joggers.

I have little choice in the matter.

All I can think about is the short span of ugly brown upholstery between us. How it seems like a contradiction of too much and too little space at once. How I want several walls and a locked door between us. How I want her so close she’s filling the faults of my hips with hers, over and over until I can't tell where I end and she begins.

And as if that wasn't enough, suddenly, the woman on the TV is teasing the man about his intact virtue. Suddenly, she's offering to teach him less virtuous things. Suddenly she’s taking him into a cave and _taking him_ in that cave.

I clench my jaw. I'm not sure how much time has passed but it'll be a miracle if I make it to the end of this episode.

When the hair stands on the back of my neck, I know Jude is watching me. Probably gauging my reaction, seeing if the show makes me flustered. Maybe she lied before when she said she hadn't seen it. What if she picked this episode intentionally, just to tease me?

I won't give her that satisfaction.

I slide my gaze to her, ready to act as calm and collected as ever. Ready to meet whatever smug expression she has on her face with my own kind of defiance. Only, it's not my face she's staring at.

Her eyes are on my bare shoulder, brows furrowed.

"Yes?" I ask.

Jude blinks, pink blooming violently on her cheeks. "Nothing," she says, and looks away quickly.

"Obviously, it's not nothing. You've been staring at me for five minutes."

She looks at my shoulder again. At my bruise, I realise. "It's just... I didn't know I bit you that hard."

I go still. Well, that is _not_ what I was expecting.

For a wild moment, she seems like she’s sorry, but that can’t be right. She frowns, and I decide she's probably just sorry she didn't bite me harder.

“Are you concerned for my wellbeing?“ I ask drily. “Or do you just want to do it again?”

Jude scowls. “I _would_ if it made you shut up.”

"You never know until you try.” I grin, calling her bluff.

I can see her teetering on the edge of a decision, though. That look makes my stomach twist to knots.

Maybe she _wasn't_ bluffing. God, I hope she wasn't. I hope she hates me just enough to do it. To dine on the fine wine of my humiliation.

A rush of adrenaline surges through me. She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, and I can't think of anything much but that mouth, red and wicked and wanting.

Then she's moving, shifting across that infernal space between us. Gaze darkened, lips tilted in half-baked amusement, Jude sidles right up next to me, leaning in so I feel her breath on my neck.

"Do you really want that?" Her voice rolls like smoke from her lips. I breathe it in. "Did you like it before?" She traces my bruise— _her_ bruise—with a feather-light fingertip.

I give an involuntary shiver. "Would you humour me if I said yes?"

Her smile widens. "No," she hums. Which doesn't surprise me, but still makes my blood boil a little. "Because there's something better I'd like to preoccupy my mouth with."

I stare at her, incredulous. _Holy fuck._ Whatever I was thinking before, I am entirely unprepared for those words. They feel like a punch to the gut. She can't be serious, can she?

But then she slides off the sofa, onto the floor, situating herself very seriously between my legs. She's on her knees before me and my stomach feels like it's going to fall out of my dick.

She runs her hands up my thighs to the waistband of my jeans, discerning. "Can I?" she asks, tapping the button.

"Erm... sure.”

"Really?" She arches a brow. "You don't sound it."

But I am. I'm sure of her hands on my thighs. I'm sure of how much I hate her and how much I want her in the same contradicting breath. She is the only thing I am sure of right now. And that has to be good for something, right?

"Tell me what you want, Cardan."

I lean forward a bit and brush my name from her lips with the pad of my thumb. "This mouth."

Her lashes flutter. She looks mischievous as I lean back again, allowing her to take the reins. Jude’s hands are steady as she unzips me. She's all bottom lip between teeth with a side of hungry determination.

It's ridiculously hot. I’m disgusted by that thought most of all.

"This is a terrible idea," I say in a whisper.

"Yes," Jude says, tugging my jeans by the belt loops.

~~

Her hands are cold, and when she grasps me, the muscles in my torso tense. There is nothing shy in her grip. She pumps me slow, watching my face. I'm not sure what she sees there, but her gaze is intense enough to set my dick pulsing. Hatred and desire and something a little scary glitter in her eyes.

My teeth grind together at the effort it takes to remain poised. I hate giving her this kind of power over me, but the devil knows I want to. The worst part is, she knows it.

I stare back at her and just hope I don't look like a simpering idiot.

When I feel the heat of her mouth wrap around me, I have to fist the pillows to keep from rutting into the back of her throat. It's pure bliss, the pink pout of her lips. Better and so much worse than any of my fantasies.

She sinks down as far as she can go without gagging, using her hands for the rest. My mind is a mess of curses and phrases I'd rather not embarrass myself by saying out loud in front of her. Her head bobs, taking my length in and out, working a talented tongue around me.

It feels incredible. It feels twisted and sick. It feels like she's sucking the soul straight out of my dick, and I'm not even sure I believe in all of that soul crap.

The next time she brings her lips to my tip, she runs her nails along the inside of my thighs at the same time, sending a shock of pleasure ripping through me. My hips jump, forcing myself half-way back into her mouth.

" _Fucking hell, Jude._ " I throw my head back careless against the cushions, eyes mashed shut.

She hums.

I'm rock hard and throbbing, but she teases me. She traces her tongue up the veins of my cock in slow, torturous drags. A long groan spills from my mouth and she laughs, taking the tip of my dribbling length between the pillow of her lips. The vibration of it, the wet heat of her tongue swirling around me makes my head reel.

Jude releases me for a moment. "You couldn't get it out of your head, could you?" She drags her tongue again, up my length and slow as Satan's torment. "The way you made me beg."

My jaw tenses and I shoot her a poisonous look, but that doesn't stop the memories from rushing back in a deluge of desire, stealing my tongue and wit.

"I'll bet you enjoyed it," she says, fingers closing tighter around me as she pumps. Then, she gives a wicked grin. "It runs in the family, after all." I don't have time to let the anger from that jibe rise before she's slipping her tongue between the slit at my tip.

A loud grunt rolls past my teeth. She closes her eyes, licks her lips as if savouring the taste of me, my unravelling. When she opens them again, she bites that bottom lip and meets my gaze. I almost spill over right then.

Her smile is spun sugar melting and then she has me back in her mouth, bobbing vigorously before slowly dragging me out again, sucking, tongue dancing over my tip in that same hellish manuevre that makes me see stars.

" _Fuck you_ ," I grit out. Then hiss as she lets go of me with a loud suck and smack of her lips.

"Okay," she says.

I blink. It takes me a moment to realise what she means. She's kneeling there, smirking up at me with half-lidded eyes.

 _She's joking,_ I tell myself. She has to be.

There's no way she wants me like that. No one in their right mind would want someone they hate. I mean, I know _I_ want her. I've surrendered myself to that fact. I also never claimed to be in my right mind.

This is all just her way of teasing me. She's trying to tip the scales in her favour again, throw me off-balance. But hell, if I wouldn't do anything to hear her moan my name again while buried to the hilt in her.

Suddenly I'm moving, lifting her off the floor and pinning her to the couch. Her hair spills over the cushion in wild waves and there’s a thrilled sort of look in her eyes.

 _Whatever you do to me, I_ let _you do._

She doesn't push me away. Only gives me her most devious grin, stroking a finger down my leaking cock. Wherever evil comes from, I think it must be her.

"Don't say things you don't mean, love," I say.

"Who says I don't mean it?"

For a long minute, we're still. Locked eyes, chests heaving against each other. She seems completely serious, and I don't know what to make of that. Everything about this seems like some cruel taunting.

I'll probably be waiting for the other shoe to drop until we're both spent, but fuck it. I've been thinking about the way she tasted on my fingers since the night I pinned her against the wall and made her come until she couldn't walk.

I'll be the willing punch line of her joke if it means I get to drink my fill again.

"Are you going to tell me to stop this time?" I ask her.

Her breathing is ragged. "Do _you_ want to stop?"

"No."

Jude looks me dead in the eye as she hooks a leg around my waist, drawing me in. "Good.”

**~~**

**☽☽☽☽☽**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Okay, before you yell at me for that cliffhanger, THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE POSTED TOMORROW NIGHT! I only say this because I am 100% confident it is finished. This chapter was already a hefty ordeal, so the main course gets its own chapter. Stay tuned!  
> *wipes sweat from forehead* jfc that was a long one lmao. Thank you so much to everyone who has shown their love and support for this fic over the past few months! If you liked this chapter, please do let me know in the comments. I’m shit at responding in a timely manner but I WILL respond to every single one in due course. They absolutely make my day.  
> I am slightlyrebelliouswriter23 on Tumblr. All my works are posted there, as well.   
> See you lovely people tomorrow!  
> -Em 🖤💫


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